


waking up in vegas

by thunderylee



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Kitayama wakes up naked in bed with Fujigaya.





	waking up in vegas

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written for cotton candy bingo (quest).

It’s hotter than it should be, both the temperature and the level of arousal Kitayama has upon waking. Strong, masculine arms wrap around him and he’s momentarily confused; when he left his hotel room to go out last night, he was definitely inclined towards the female persuasion, at least to the point of spooning in bed. Naked.

Kitayama’s eyes pop open when he realizes the situation he’s in, but then his head pounds in protest and he closes them again. The alarm clock on the nightstand says 7:17, which is entirely too early for anyone to be awake at anytime, especially on vacation.

Vacation, he remembers with relief. They’re in Las Vegas. That explains the weather, because it’s August in the desert and even the lowest aircon setting can’t keep out the stationary oven of _heat_ wherever they go. It wasn’t the best time to take a group vacation, but when you have to match up seven schedules—one of whom has three back-to-back dramas—you take what you can get. Besides, you only get one first-year anniversary.

Two days doesn’t seem like a lot for international travel, but to the Kisumai members it was perfect. Two days of no cameras or obligations other than to get ridiculously wasted, lose a lot of money at the casinos, and potentially hook up with slutty American girls (or boys, whichever). Two days is also the maximum amount of time Fujigaya can tolerate them all at once when work isn’t involved, though Kitayama hardly thinks that counts since he’s spent most of the time they’ve been together sleeping.

Kitayama tries to run the events of last night through his mind and comes up with nothing. The honest-to-God last thing he remembers is slamming down drinks at the bar, something about a flaming Dr. Pepper which didn’t appear to have any actual Dr. Pepper in it. It was also lit on fire. Kitayama’s not the smartest drinker, but he’s in good company, though whether that’s comforting or not is anyone’s guess.

Something throbs in his head and his bladder is yelling at him to get up, but he doesn’t want to know who is snuggling up to his back quite yet. How drunk was he to bring a _man_ back to his hotel room? Why wasn’t anyone watching him? Kitayama knows the answer to both of those questions, but that doesn’t change the fact that he had sex with some complete stranger last night. Hopefully they used protection.

He ends up falling back asleep, because the clock reads 10:03 when the door is flung open and Yokoo races into the hotel room, quickly followed by Nikaido. Yokoo looks way too awake considering the shots he was throwing back last night, and Kitayama is pretty sure that Nikaido is still drunk from the way he’s clinging to Yokoo with only one eye open.

“Oh, thank God,” Yokoo breathes, slumping against the wall; Nikaido slumps with him. “We found him.”

Kitayama tries to escape the embrace, but the man’s clutches are too tight. He seems to stir at the sound of voices and Kitayama freezes, unprepared to have an audience for this unveiling. Instead he remembers where he is and gives Yokoo a halfway confused look. “This is my hotel room,” he grumbles. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“Not you,” Yokoo says. “Taisuke.”

“Tai—” Kitayama repeats, then recognizes the arms squeezing him as the man behind him wakes up enough to whine into Kitayama’s hair. “Oh.”

“Wild night, huh, Mitsu?” Nikaido slurs, waggling his eyebrows in a way that would be much more effective if he could stand up straight on his own.

“Get the fuck out,” Fujigaya grumbles in the deepest voice Kitayama’s ever heard from him, and Kitayama can’t help but shiver because it’s directed right into the top of his spine.

“Fine, but we’re meeting downstairs at the buffet in forty-five minutes,” Yokoo says. “You both slept through the entire flight, so no excuses.”

They leave and Kitayama reluctantly drags himself out of bed, splashing cold water on his face and checking his neck for any incriminating marks before returning to face the music. It’s not as awkward as he expects with Fujigaya still asleep, having replaced Kitayama in his arms with a pillow as his hair sticks up in several different directions. The darkness of his skin contrasts with the white of the sheets and Kitayama is spellbound for a moment just looking at him.

Did they actually…Kitayama surveys the room and finds sporadic pieces of their clothing strewn all over, clearly flung off carelessly. Kitayama feels his face flushing as he continues the visual in his mind, and he can’t decide whether he’s grateful that it’s Fujigaya or if that makes it worse. He doesn’t feel sore at all, at least where it matters, so Kitayama had to have been on top; his only saving grace in this whole ordeal. Kitayama doesn’t think he’d be able to show his face if he’d actually taken it from that guy in an intoxicated moment of bad judgment.

“Stop staring at me,” Fujigaya mutters, and Kitayama pretends to root through his suitcase. “Where are my pants?”

“Probably on the floor,” Kitayama answers. “What happened last night?”

“You don’t know?” Fujigaya looks annoyed as he stretches as far as he can to reach the floor without actually moving. Kitayama tries not to watch the muscles of Fujigaya’s abdomen, nor the small peek of his hip that’s exposed as the covers dip down low enough. Suddenly feeling hot all over, Kitayama grabs some clean clothes and retreats into the shower to wash last night off of him.

Fujigaya lets himself in while Kitayama’s trying to drown in his shame, and for one terrifying second he actually thinks Fujigaya’s going to get into the shower with him. But he doesn’t, just handles his business and when Kitayama peeks back into his hotel room, the other man is gone.

Kitayama’s eyes linger on the messed-up sheets, and as much as he tries to fight it, he can’t stop seeing Fujigaya twisting across the bed. They’re not memories by any means, more imagination than actual recollection, but that doesn’t make it any easier to think about being on top of him, tasting that golden skin and moving in and out of his body. He’d be so tight; he’d have to be, after working so much with minimal time to go out.

Suddenly Kitayama needs another shower, and this one leaves him more ashamed than before.

Breakfast isn’t as uncomfortable as he expects it to be, mostly because he’s used to the pair of them just existing in each other’s presence. This time there’s food, which makes it more tolerable even if Kitayama’s stomach (and probably his liver) is still mad at him for his unfavorable life choices.

Only Yokoo, Nikaido, and Senga are at the buffet, and Kitayama is not surprised in the slightest. Miyata has a hard enough time waking Tamamori up on work days, let alone when he doesn’t actually have a reason to be conscious. Kitayama half listens as Yokoo chatters about everything he wants to see here, all the places he wants to go. Fujigaya jumps at the chance to accompany him, though Kitayama would bet most of his bank account that it has nothing to do with any interest in Las Vegas and everything to do with getting away from Kitayama.

“We were going to go shopping,” Senga says, grinning at Kitayama, and Kitayama hates him a little for having a better alcohol tolerance despite being barely legal to drink in either country. “Want to come with us, Kitamitsu?”

One look at Nikaido tells Kitayama that he’d rather join the drag show than follow Senga from store to store while he buys absolutely nothing, and that’s the main reason Kitayama agrees. At least they can be miserable together.

“So, you and Taipi, huh?” Nikaido asks before they even cross the _street_ , and Kitayama thinks that watching cartoons with Miyata while Tamamori sleeps would have been a better option.

“I don’t fucking know,” Kitayama grumbles, squinting at the mean sun that taunts him. “I just woke up and he was there.”

“You don’t remember?” Senga asks suddenly, his face taking on this expression of incredulity like Kitayama had just forgotten his own mother’s birthday or something.

“Not a thing.” Kitayama feels sheepish as they duck into an expensive-looking clothing store on the strip. “Do _you_ know what happened last night?”

Senga swallows, looking guilty. “Um. Not much more than bits and pieces, but at least I remember who I went to bed with.”

Kitayama sees an advertisement for a drive-thru wedding chapel and stops short. “Oh no, we didn’t get married, did we?”

“I don’t _think_ so?” Senga replies. “Can you even get gay-married here?”

“If you did, it wouldn’t be recognized in Japan anyway,” Nikaido says, patting Kitayama’s back like he said something comforting, and Kitayama prides himself on not punching anyone in the face.

“You two are absolutely no help,” Kitayama grumbles, frowning the entire time Senga eyeballs a hat and makes Nikaido take a picture of him at every angle so he can see if it flatters his accents or whatever.

Usually Kitayama’s memory returns after a few hours of consciousness, just when he’s starting to feel better, but lunch passes and there’s still nothing. There’s a flash of a green felt…maybe the craps table? Panicked, Kitayama checks his wallet and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds a good amount of American currency. His mother had advised him against bringing his bank card, which he’s incredibly grateful for now.

“Can’t you tell when you do it with a man?” Nikaido blurts out in the middle of the mall, and Kitayama quickly looks around to see if there are any Japanese people in hearing distance, which for Nikaido is basically the entire area.

“Keep your voice down,” Kitayama hisses, “and I don’t feel anything like that, but that doesn’t mean nothing happened.”

“No wonder Taipi’s ignoring you,” Senga comments. “I’d be upset if you fucked me and didn’t remember it, too.”

That makes Kitayama stop again, because wow. “I didn’t think of it like that,” he thinks out loud, feeling like a world-class asshole. “Shit.”

“You should really talk to him about it,” Senga advises, “ _after_ you figure out what happened last night.”

Kitayama starts to ask why he has to figure it out first, then recalls the annoyed expression on Fujigaya’s face this morning when Kitayama had told him he didn’t remember anything. _Something_ happened between them last night, something important. But he cannot remember a single fucking thing.

“How do I remember?” he asks desperately, looking from Senga to Nikaido—who’s leafing through an X-rated entertainment advert—and back.

“You could try retracing your steps,” Senga suggests. “Maybe seeing familiar scenery will help.”

“Since there’s no other option,” Kitayama mutters as he flips through his wallet for a couple bucks for something to drink.

“Good luck!” Nikaido says cheerfully, and Kitayama’s turning to gape at him for leaving him like this when a matchbook falls out of his wallet and hits the ground.

All three of them stare at it, until Senga finally leans down to pick it up. “Pussycats Gentlemen’s Club? Isn’t this the strip club we went to last night?”

“Maybe?” Kitayama takes the matchbook from him and turns it over and over in his hand like it’s a magical object that will implant memories in his head. “Can’t hurt to go and check it out.”

“Well, I guess we can help you,” Nikaido retracts, slinging his arms around both Kitayama and Senga as he turns them in the direction of the club. “I could use a lap dance right about now.”

“Nika, it’s two-thirty in the afternoon,” Senga informs him.

“Which means it’s like eleven p.m. in Japan,” Nikaido replies, like that justifies it, and Kitayama decides against pointing out how wrong his conversion is.

Despite the time of day, there are still a good number of patrons at the strip club, and Kitayama has to keep a hold on the back of Nikaido’s shirt to keep him from wandering off. They’re not here for fun right now.

“Hey!” the bartender calls over, recognition dawning on her glittered face, and Kitayama looks behind him before pointing right at his nose. “Yeah, you! Welcome back.”

“You remember me?” he asks in his broken English, breaking away from the younger members to make his way to the bar. “Can you help me? I don’t know anything from last night.”

It’s very difficult to hold a conversation in an unfamiliar language with a topless woman, especially since Kitayama’s at the right height to appreciate it, but he tries his best to pay attention to her answer. “Well, all I know is that you and your friends came in really late last night, around midnight? You stayed for a couple of hours. It was pretty wild and the one you were kissing got up on the pole, and—”

“Wait, the one I was kissing?” Kitayama cuts her off.

The bartender squints at him. “Maybe it wasn’t you. But it was definitely someone in your group.”

God, that could be any of them, Kitayama thinks in horror, but he pushes those thoughts away to focus on the task at hand. “Did you happen to hear us talking about anything, maybe where we were going next?”

“You were speaking in Japanese,” she tells him, and Kitayama almost smacks his own forehead. Of course. “It is Japanese, right?”

“Yeah, Japanese.” Kitayama smiles at her. “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem. You want a drink?”

Kitayama shakes his head so fast that the remains of his hangover catch up with him. “I’m never drinking again.”

She laughs at him. “It’ll make you feel better. Hair of the dog that bit you and all. It’s on the house.”

The English idiom goes over Kitayama’s head, but he accepts the mixed drink she makes him anyway. It’s not very strong, with just enough kick to calm the throbbing on his brain. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She nods towards the table. “Oh, your friends found Sasha. You guys really favored her last night. She’s Japanese, too.”

Kitayama whips his head around to see Nikaido and Senga seated at one of the tables, Nikaido’s face smashed between the stripper’s obviously fake breasts while Senga watches in a mixture of trauma and interest. After thanking the bartender one more time, Kitayama races over to them, wondering when he became the adult in this arrangement, but the minute he sees the stripper’s face he pauses, suddenly hit with a sense of deja vu.

“I’m getting information,” Nikaido says defensively, but Kitayama ignores him, leaning over Nikaido’s head to stare at ‘Sasha’.

“Do you remember last night?” he asks, giving her his best pleading eyes.

“What’s it worth to you?” she replies in Japanese, her voice low and gravelly like she’s smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for ten years, and Kitayama narrows his eyes.

“I tried that,” Nikaido tells him. “She won’t talk until you give her money, and if you give her money you may as well get something out of it.”

Shrugging, Kitayama sits down in the chair next to him and fumbles through his wallet for a twenty. Sasha’s Sharpied eyebrows rise as she takes in the denomination, then she abandons Nikaido mid-body roll to flip over to him. Kitayama closes his eyes as he’s motorboated by silicone, trying not to enjoy it too much. Not because Nikaido and Senga are there, but because he still feels like a dick for whatever he’d done to Fujigaya.

“The bartender said that one of us danced on the pole last night,” Kitayama starts. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Nikaido gasps. “I bet it was Taipi.”

“It could have been me,” Senga says with a grimace.

“Honey, I dance for a lot of Asians,” Sasha replies, smirking down at him with dark lined lips. “They seem to prefer my type.”

“Your type—” Kitayama starts, then his eyes widen as she rolls her hips against him and there is definitely something there that shouldn’t be. “You’re a man?”

There are some unflattering noises next to him as Nikaido has a squawking fit, but Sasha just smirks. “Only there. From the looks of your behavior last night, you would be the last person to mind.”

“I thought you couldn’t tell us apart,” Kitayama says with a huff, feeling his face turn red from a combination of the lap dance and the realization that he really had been sucking face with one of his bandmates in public last night.

“When two hot Japanese boys are making out at my table, I remember.” Sasha winks at him as she does some complicated acrobatic maneuver that Kitayama doubts anyone in ABC-Z could even imitate halfway. “I would know if I saw him again, but it’s definitely not one of these two.”

Senga breathes a huge sigh of relief, but Kitayama’s actually hopeful. “So if I brought him back here, you would be able to tell me if it was him?”

“Probably,” Sasha says, “for another twenty.”

Rolling his eyes, Kitayama slips out from under her and nudges Nikaido to get up as well. “I’ll be back then.”

He drags both of them out of the club, ignoring how Nikaido hides behind Senga for a good number of minutes as Kitayama looks around. “If it was two a.m. when we left here, we probably went back to the hotel…do you think?”

“Doubtful,” Senga replies. “We all slept on the plane, so we would have been wide awake. We might have gone to eat?”

“I remember a casino,” Kitayama says. “Green felt, like a craps table? That may have been before the strip club, though.”

“I know we went to the casino in our hotel,” Nikaido offers, “but that was right when we got here.”

“Yeah, I remember that, too.” Kitayama drops his head in his hands as he curses his completely empty memory. “Then we went to the bar and I drank too much.”

“Maybe Tama-chan or Miyacchi remember something?” Senga says hopefully. “It’s almost four p.m., so they should be awake now.”

“Can we go back anyway?” Nikaido asks. “It’s hot as fuck out here.”

Kitayama agrees, so they trek back to the hotel and dawdle around the casino to see if anything jogs Kitayama’s memory. He sees the bar, recalling the giant glasses of alcohol that were continuously placed in front of him as he and Yokoo were each determined to drink the other under the table. Kitayama doesn’t even remember Fujigaya being there; he’d woken up only long enough to transport his luggage and his person to the hotel, where he’d passed right back out. The next time Kitayama remembers seeing him was in bed this morning.

Thinking of Fujigaya in bed this morning doesn’t bode well for Kitayama’s sanity, especially now that he’s not alone, and he barely keeps himself from thinking about that torso stretching out on his bed, throat exposed and tempting—

“Nothing,” he says quickly, sighing a little too hard as he turns back to the other two. “This is ridiculous.”

“Let’s go see Tama-chan and Miyacchi,” Senga insists, pulling Kitayama by the arm into the elevator. Miyata’s in his pajamas when they arrive, and Tamamori’s still curled up in bed though his eyes are partially open.

“How much do _you_ hate life today?” Miyata greets him with a big grin, and Kitayama foregoes his instinctual narrowed eyes to grab Miyata by the arms because _he remembers_.

“What happened last night?” he demands, shaking the other man a little bit. “I can’t remember a thing and I woke up naked in bed with Fujigaya.”

Tamamori whistles as he reaches for the rest of his cobbler on the room service tray. “It was only a matter of time,” he says, then whines when the tray is too far and he has to move. “Cobbler-san, come closer please. I want to eat you.”

“Shut up,” Kitayama says, ignoring the snickers behind him. “I think I…with him…and apparently something important led up to it and he’s pissed at me because I don’t remember it.”

“Something important?” Miyata blinks. “Mitsu, you were trashed out of your mind. We all know better than to tell you anything after you’ve had a few. If he’s pissed about anything, it’s that he woke up in bed with _you_.”

“I have to say I’m surprised, though,” Tamamori says. “After the way you and I were going at it in the strip club.”

Kitayama sputters as he looks at Tamamori. “You and me?”

“You don’t remember?” Tamamori feigns a pout. “That hurts, Kitamitsu.”

“How did that even…” Kitayama shakes his head. “Never mind. I probably don’t want to know.”

Senga steps forward then and points at Tamamori. “Wait, does that mean _you_ danced on the pole?”

“Just for a couple minutes,” Tamamori replies, interrupting himself with a yawn. “Kitamitsu said I couldn’t do it and I proved him wrong.”

He and Miyata fist bump, nearly identical smirks on their faces as Kitayama flops face-down onto the bed and tries to bury his head in the covers that Tamamori’s not using.

“Aw, Mitsu, it didn’t mean anything.” Tamamori pats his head gently. “I was just bored, you know? And you’re slutty when you’re drunk.”

“Taipi didn’t even show up until we were almost ready to leave,” Miyata adds. “He saw how wasted you were and said he was taking you back to the room, and that’s the last we saw of either of you.”

“Great,” Kitayama mutters. “So the only person who knows what happened is him.”

“Honestly?” Miyata says, pulling Kitayama back up by his hair and ignoring the way he cringes. “He’s not a girl, Mitsu. He’s also been something like a friend to you for a decade or however long you idiots have been stuck together, so even if he _is_ mad at you, he’ll get over it. Just go talk to him already.”

Kitayama resents being called an idiot by Miyata of all people, but he can’t deny that the bastard is right. “Do you know if he and Watta are back yet?”

“No idea,” Tamamori mumbles. “You’re the first ones to come see us all day.”

Senga yawns suddenly, leaning over on Nikaido. “Let’s go take a nap, Nika. It’s probably going to be another long night.”

“I’m not drinking a fucking thing tonight,” Kitayama declares, and all four of them give him a look that plainly says they don’t believe that for a second.

“That’s a shame,” Tamamori says with a dirty smile. “You’re such a good kisser.”

Kitayama shudders and leaves the room, a sea of laughter following him out. Once in the silence of the hallway, he steels his resolve and heads to the room that Watta and Fujigaya are sharing. He stares at the door for a few seconds, gathering the courage to knock, until it flings open and he becomes face-to-face with Fujigaya and the ice bucket.

“Ah!” Fujigaya exclaims, then clutches his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” Kitayama says, his own heart pounding for different reasons. Looking directly at Fujigaya brings back flashbacks of what he has been trying to forget all day, even if at this point they’re less flashback and more fantasy. “Are you going to get ice? I’ll walk with you.”

“It’s just at the end of the hall,” Fujigaya replies. “I don’t need an escort.”

Kitayama follows him anyway, watching him as he walks the way he normally does—half lazy and half swagger. Whatever they did last night doesn’t appear to have any lasting damage, at least. Kitayama’s not sure what that says about him, but he feels much less guilty now that he knows Fujigaya hasn’t been in pain all day.

“I’m flattered that you like my ass so much, but can you save the creeper staring for the stage, please?”

Fujigaya looks amused when Kitayama darts his eyes back to his face, nudging past him with the full bucket of ice. He doesn’t appear to be mad, Kitayama notes. Fujigaya’s not the type to silently seethe, either; if someone does something to piss him off, he lets it be known. Perhaps Kitayama should just let it go, but after spending all day on a quest to learn the truth, he _has_ to know.

“What happened last night?” he blurts out when they return to the room.

Yokoo jumps up from his laptop. “Oh, look at the time. I have a thing.”

“Don’t bother,” Fujigaya says, plopping the bucket down on the table and turning to face Kitayama. “Nothing happened last night.”

Kitayama blinks. “What?”

“It’s what I just said.” Fujigaya sighs. “Look, I was drunk too, okay, though not _nearly_ as fucked up as you were. I stayed in your room in case you got alcohol poisoning or something. Since you’re rooming by yourself, nobody would know if something bad happened, right? I was terrified that you were going to die in your sleep, so I slept with my arms around you so I could feel you breathe.”

“That’s…” Kitayama pauses. “… nice of you.”

“I have my moments.” Fujigaya shrugs. “I suppose it could be worse. It’s not like we fucked or anything.”

Kitayama gasps. “We didn’t?”

Both Fujigaya and Yokoo gape at him. “You thought we did?!” Fujigaya shrieks, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh, and Yokoo doesn’t even bother to try.

“It’s not _that_ funny,” Kitayama mutters. “We didn’t have any clothes on!”

“Because you were gross and I didn’t have anything comfortable to sleep in,” Fujigaya explains, his expression still amazed. “You actually thought…”

“I spent all day retracing my steps to remember how it happened!” Kitayama tells him, raising his voice a little. “I paid a transsexual stripper twenty dollars to tell me what I already knew!”

“I _thought_ that was a dude,” Fujigaya says. “And if you were going to fuck anyone in this group last night, it would be Tamamori. You two were practically eating each other’s faces when I got to the club. I couldn’t even get a lap dance before my conscience gave in and I carted your drunk ass all the way back here.”

Kitayama slumps against the wall, covering his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“Besides,” Fujigaya goes on, “with as wasted as you were, I doubt you could have gotten it up for anyone, even someone as hot as me.”

“I’m going back to my room now,” Kitayama announces, heading for the door.

“Hey, you owe me,” Fujigaya calls after him. “I didn’t get to have any fun last night because of you. Tonight you’re responsible for me.”

“Whatever,” Kitayama mutters, then retreats to his own hotel room, which had been visited by housekeeping in his absence. The fresh sheets feel nice and he falls into them, ignoring the thoughts mulling around in his head because he refuses to admit that he’s actually _disappointed_ in this unexpected turn of events. Fujigaya had looked so good writhing underneath him in his imagination.

It’s dark when he’s forcefully woken up by someone bouncing on the bed like a fucking child, until Kitayama is conscious enough to shove him off. He jumps right back, all smiles and he flops down on Kitayama’s back.

“Is this what you thought we did, Mitsu?” Fujigaya taunts him, now shaking the bed in a different way. “Or did you actually think you topped?”

“I hate you,” Kitayama grumbles, and Fujigaya laughs. “Please get drunk enough to forget this.”

“Never,” Fujigaya replies, continuing to rock the mattress until Kitayama finally wakes up and stumbles into the shower. Thankfully Fujigaya leaves him alone, but he’s still there when Kitayama emerges from the bathroom and eyes him critically as he gets dressed.

“Acceptable?” Kitayama asks when he’s done, looking pointedly at Fujigaya.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Fujigaya jumps up to grab his arm, yanking him out of the room, and the next thing he says is in English: “Come on, loser, we’re going clubbing.”

Fujigaya stays true to his word and gets smashed within the first hour, dancing with anything that breathes and some things that don’t. His torture also gets worse as he gets looser, moving from just mentioning Kitayama’s lapse in judgment to hissing filthy details in his ear.

“Did I suck you off first?” he asks, draping himself over Kitayama’s back. “I’m good at that, you know.”

He follows his words with his tongue and Kitayama snatches the drink from his hand. “You’re cut off.”

“Aw, Mitsu,” Fujigaya slurs, and Kitayama can see his frown in the tiled mirror reflecting from behind the bar where he’s been sitting playing video poker. “Dance with me.”

“No,” Kitayama says. “Go dance with Tama-chan.”

“Tama-chan’s talking to his shot glasses,” Fujigaya tells him. “They look deep in conversation, so I don’t want to interrupt them.”

“Senga?”

“Attached at the hip to Nika. Don’t feel like sharing.”

“Watta?”

“He’s flanked by like five girls, and that’s not where my interests lie tonight.”

“Miyacchi?”

“Please.”

Finally Kitayama rolls his eyes and motions for a drink. “Nothing flaming,” he insists, knowing damn well that the bartender doesn’t understand him, then looks over his shoulder. “There are like seven _hundred_ other people here that you can dance with.”

“They’re not as easy as you,” Fujigaya says, pouting.

“Easy?” Kitayama lifts an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean,” Fujigaya huffs, shaking his hand like that will get his point across. “I don’t have to pretend to care about small talk—in English, even—or try to match your rhythm or worry about being drugged. You don’t want me to get _drugged_ , do you?”

Kitayama gives him an unimpressed look. “Fine.”

Now Fujigaya grins. “See? Easy.”

Kitayama’s drink arrives and Fujigaya cheers him on as he chugs it down, then he grabs Fujigaya’s arm to pull him onto the dance floor. The music is awful dubstep but Kitayama doesn’t care, letting his body just move to the music for once instead of following strict choreographed steps. He feels Fujigaya press against him and welcomes it, the pair of them moving together naturally after so many years of being in sync.

Fujigaya’s hands grip his waist at the same time a gust of aftershave hits his nose and Kitayama breathes in, momentarily dazed by the sensation overload. He’s not drunk, but tipsy enough to release his inhibitions and lean over to speak right into Fujigaya’s ear.

“I was on top and you were beneath me, facing me,” he says. “You loved it so much, all you could do was scream my name.”

He expects Fujigaya to laugh at him, but those hands just pull him closer. “Yeah? What else?”

Kitayama rolls his body more pointedly than the music requires. “You kept throwing your head back, showing me your throat, and I wanted to bite it.”

“Kinky,” Fujigaya replies. “I thought Watta was the vampire of the group.”

“Not like that, you freak.” Kitayama pokes him in the side.

Fujigaya pokes him back. “You’re the one talking dirty to me on the dance floor, freak.”

This is true. Kitayama feels something rush through his veins as his own hands clutch onto the back of Fujigaya’s shirt, which is soaked with sweat. He thinks about Fujigaya sweating during something else and the words come without his active thought: “How drunk are you?”

“Drunk enough to fuck you,” Fujigaya answers bluntly, and Kitayama’s hands tighten. “Unlike you, though, I don’t like an audience.”

“Let’s go, then,” Kitayama hisses, and they both elbow each other in an effort to get ahead as they clear the dance floor and leave the club. Even at night, the hot summer air doesn’t do much in terms of temperature adjustment; if anything, it’s even hotter by the time they get back to the hotel, Fujigaya pouncing on Kitayama before he can get the key card in the slot, and Kitayama’s positive that Fujigaya will take him right here against the door if he doesn’t get it open in the next forty-five seconds.

The lock clicks and they both tumble inside, right to the floor, and one of them has enough foresight to kick the door closed behind them. Fujigaya’s mouth is on his neck, licking and nipping, and Kitayama roughly pulls him up by the hair to kiss him properly. Fujigaya’s tongue is hot and persistent, the mixture of alcohol and maraschino cherries making Kitayama’s head spin. They grind together in the filthiest type of dancing as Fujigaya spreads Kitayama’s thighs with his knees and settles between them, thrusting with such fervor that Kitayama would think they were already doing it.

“I’ve thought of nothing else all night, you _bastard_ ,” Fujigaya hisses into his mouth, fingers popping the buttons of his shirt until he can shove it off. “I didn’t even think you liked guys.”

“I like _you_ ,” Kitayama replies, because he’s drunk enough to admit it, and Fujigaya kisses him harder. Hands drop to Kitayama’s belt and he lifts his hips helpfully. “And I’ve been thinking about it all _day_.”

“Hey, lazy ass, do some of the work here,” Fujigaya grumbles.

“Why, when you’re doing it all so well?” Kitayama replies. “Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

Fujigaya shoves Kitayama’s pants down like he’s angry with them, then licks his way back up Kitayama’s chest. “If you want me to blow you, you’ll do your part.”

His tongue flicks pointedly along Kitayama’s sternum and Kitayama claws at the shoulders of Fujigaya’s shirt. “Whatever.”

The shirt flies over their heads and Kitayama starts in on the pants, jerking at the way Fujigaya moans when he brushes the bulge in front. Soon they’re both as naked as they were this morning and Kitayama becomes very aware of the rug under his ass, uncomfortable enough for him to drag Fujigaya up onto the bed. Fujigaya looks shocked at Kitayama’s effort, but that’s where it ends as Kitayama pulls Fujigaya back down on top of him and rocks against him.

Fujigaya has two packets in his hand and Kitayama eyes him as he drops them to the bed. “I was betting on it ending up like this,” he explains, then licks his lips obscenely as his head drops out of sight.

“God, Taisuke,” Kitayama gasps, his fingers already in Fujigaya’s fluffy club hair.

“Not even touching you yet and you’re already saying my name,” Fujigaya mutters into Kitayama’s stomach, and Kitayama would roll his eyes if it wasn’t for the little matter of lips on his cock. Fujigaya’s tongue is doing wicked things to the head and he doesn’t think he can get any harder, paying no mind to the way Fujigaya lifts one of his knees over his shoulder and swirls a slick finger between his legs.

Kitayama rocks between both touches, no stranger to doing it this way but not by any means used to it either. He groans when Fujigaya gets in another finger and moves them both inside him, distracting Kitayama by taking him nearly all the way into his mouth. Kitayama’s fisting Fujigaya’s hair now, which Fujigaya appears to like judging by the way he sucks Kitayama’s cock in and out of his mouth and fingers him even harder, slipping in a third.

“Taisuke,” Kitayama gasps, hips snapping to thrust deep into Fujigaya’s mouth, his back arching as he gets close.

Then Fujigaya pulls back, swaying a little as he crawls back up Kitayama’s body. “Mm, you’re so tight. Should’ve fucked you years ago.”

“Do it already,” Kitayama hisses, “before you pass out.”

Fujigaya grins down at him. “I’m not going to pass out, at least not until I come deep inside of you.”

The filthy words are punctuated by the opening of a condom and Kitayama spreads his legs a little wider, bringing his knees to his chest. “This better be good.”

“It’s me,” Fujigaya says cockily, angling himself for entry. “Of course it’ll be good.”

Kitayama leans his head back as Fujigaya pushes in, fisting the covers to keep from tensing up, and instantly Fujigaya’s hands are on top of his. It has Kitayama relaxing enough for Fujigaya to get all the way in, groaning when he bottoms out and falls forward, his head landing on Kitayama’s shoulder.

“God,” Fujigaya gasps, fingers raking up Kitayama’s arms. “I really should have fucked you years ago.”

“Barely inside me and already calling me God,” Kitayama teases. “God commands you to move.”

Fujigaya retaliates with a sharp thrust, deep enough to hit Kitayama right where he wants it, and now Kitayama’s the one clutching onto Fujigaya’s arms as he groans out loud. He can’t pull Fujigaya close enough, yet they’re as close as humanly possible with Fujigaya rocking in and out of him, slowly at first before building up speed. Fujigaya’s moans press into Kitayama’s chest and Kitayama likes the way they sound, pushing up a little bit to take him even deeper and hear more of them.

“So when you thought about it,” Fujigaya says casually, like they’re not having drunken sex in Sin City, “did you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” Kitayama answers, not even embarrassed at admitting it.

“This morning in the shower? While I was sitting right here, what the fuck.”

“No, after you left.”

“That’s it?” Fujigaya sounds disappointed as he thrusts faster. “I’ve only claimed one of your orgasms, how sad. Give me another one.”

“What?” Kitayama asks. “You don’t make any sense.”

“Get yourself off, idiot,” Fujigaya rasps. “Show me how you thought about me earlier.”

Kitayama wants to argue with him some more, but the prospect of getting release wins out over his dignity. His hand wraps around his cock and Fujigaya’s the one that moans, hips snapping as he pounds into Kitayama enough for the bed to shake. Then Kitayama starts pulling himself off, twisting his wrist and squeezing the head just how he likes it, and Fujigaya’s noises escalate into a higher octave that Kitayama files away to tease him about later.

“You better hurry up, because once I’m done, I’m out,” Fujigaya hisses, and all Kitayama can do is moan as he doubles his efforts. “Fuck, Mitsu, I’m gonna come so hard.”

“Wait,” Kitayama gasps, digging his nails into Fujigaya’s shoulder blade with his other hand. The skin he touches is sweaty and that gets him there faster. “I’m almost there.”

“We are not going to finish together like in some romantic love scene,” Fujigaya says.

“Fine, then I’ll go first,” Kitayama says, putting an abrupt end to this ridiculous debate as he arches and spills over his fingers, groaning loud enough for it to echo inside his own head.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Fujigaya grumbles, then his exhales become laced with moans as it only takes a few more thrusts to push him over the edge as well. He collapses right on top of Kitayama, sweaty enough to slide from side to side, and remains conscious long enough to tie off his condom and toss it in the general direction of the wastebasket.

Kitayama thinks about shoving him over, possibly off the bed completely, but it’s actually kind of comfortable. Fujigaya’s cute when he’s sleeping, rising and falling with the force of their combined breaths, and Kitayama manages to pull the cover over them both as he gives in to his own drunken exhaustion.

Morning comes sooner than Kitayama would have liked, particularly since all he has to look forward to is getting on a plane and going back to work. Fujigaya’s gone when he wakes up, leaving Kitayama’s chest strangely cold, but he’s already dressed and bitching with sunglasses the size of bug eyes when Kitayama joins the others in the lobby.

Senga meets him halfway, under the pretense of helping with his luggage. “So? Last night?”

“Yeah,” Kitayama says, wincing as his brain protests being vertical. “We did.”

“I can’t see you two together,” Senga tells him. “You would kill each other.”

“It’s not like that,” Kitayama says. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?”

Senga laughs. “Whatever.”

When they reach the others, Fujigaya gives him a half wave, and Kitayama flashes Senga a knowing look as he sets his luggage next to Fujigaya’s. “Hungover?”

“Like a bitch,” Fujigaya replies. “What happened last night, anyway? The last thing I remember is playing quarter shots with Tama-chan. Then I woke up with you.”

“What,” Kitayama deadpans, his heart pounding louder than his head.

“What?” Fujigaya asks innocently, then gasps. “Did something happen last night? You didn’t take advantage of me when I was drunk, did you?”

Kitayama gapes at him, fumbling over his words. “No! I mean, it wasn’t…I didn’t…”

Suddenly Fujigaya bursts out laughing, nearly falling over himself to point at Kitayama. “You should see your face.”

His energy channeling into rage, Kitayama shoves the other man over towards Yokoo. “I hope that makes your headache worse, asshole.”

“Worth it!” Fujigaya calls out as Yokoo more or less carries him to the shuttle.

Kitayama just shakes his head and follows with his luggage. His seat is right next to Fujigaya’s on the plane, and he has twelve hours to get revenge.


End file.
